January 6, 2011

I butched it up recently and against my better judgment agreed to board a party bus to Long Island to play paintball. I was remarkably good. So good, in fact, I surprised almost all my friends. There was one person to credit for my performance: the actress Adrienne Barbeau.

Now, let me explain. At one point in the game, I stood back against a metal wall. I held up the gun, quickly turned around, and, holding the gun with two hands, stood shooting, unafraid to die. I was channeling Maggie, a character from ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK.

In ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK, the 1981 thriller, Barbeau plays Maggie, a gun-toting and smart-talking criminal. She wears a tattered taffeta gown the color of Cabernet. She's not too sexy, yet not too hard. She's the perfect foil for Kurt Russell's Snake Plissken, a campy hero in leather pants and eye patch. Maggie is feminine but a badass. In one of the final scenes, she stands in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge. The Duke of New York, a gang lord played by Isaac Hayes, speeds toward her in a chandelier-clad Cadillac. Before she's smashed to death, Maggie stands firm, puts her gun out, and, in taffeta and caked blood, goes down fighting.

I secretly wanted to be her.

Barbeau's marriage to horror director John Carpenter was responsible for her turn in ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK and another cult classic, THE FOG. In THE FOG, she dons a cashmere sweater and pumps, and fights the living dead, surviving an attack on top of a lighthouse, where the killer's metal hook and her stilettos both make eerie scratches.

Barbeau's a talented lady. Before her cult fame, she was a legit actress on Broadway in Grease and on Maude, the TV show starring Bea Arthur. But it's her buxom, breathy turns in ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK, CREEPSHOW, THE FOG, and SWAMP THING that burned her image in my impressionable little head. With black curly locks and a unique, original beauty, she became a cult-movie, and fashion, icon.

January 3, 2011

I would sit and curse my father. It drifted over everything and everyone. I found it obnoxious. Shrill. Tasteless.

But now I embrace it. It's one of the few things that remind me that I am my father's son. That and the slouched shoulders (so my brother says), the receding hairline, and those eyes. I got the best of both my parents I think. From my father I got my short, though solid build. A cleft chin. A feisty spirit. A penchant for getting loud. And from my mother I took fair skin. Mousy brown hair. Compassion.

Whenever someone tells me I am too loud I always think about my father and how my anger and dismissal of his penetratingly loud voice was caused my own insecurities and I feel bad for those shushing me.

That same loudness exists outside of my voice, which can hit octaves and heights that Mariah Carey and Pomeranians only dream of. My wardrobe is loud. My art. My writing style. My friends, typically. I live out loud. In color. Teetering on the very thin line between expression and annoyance.

I know I bug people. But I don't hurt people and there is a difference.

I wrote the other day as my Facebook status that my resolution was to make people smile in 2011. I am a prolific Facebooker and I am certain I have been blocked/hidden by more people than you have. Trust me here. But my online life matches the rest: loud. That status update, simple and sincere, elicited many responses and many emails. It made people smile. As I hope fab.com does. As I hope my blog does. As I hope, usually, my voice does.

For New Years Georgi and I invited several friends, new and old, upstate to eat, Wii, party, dance, eat, sing, watch movies, and drink. And eat. And upstate we had a blast. My friends, some loud, some demure, all let their guard down and laughed. We donned wigs and competed in dance-offs. We shared meals and champagne toasts and kisses. And on New Years Eve we ventured over to Tyler Lory and Michael Rauschenberg's house in Red Hook. Joe D'Espinosa spun disco records, Billie Ray Martin, Teena Marie, Human League. I wore a white jumpsuit, red Moon Boots, and a sequined mask.

One guest, Toby Usnik, and I chatted briefly. You know that party small talk. Chit chat. And he was laughing at my costume and was so nice and complimentary to my intention: to make people laugh. He got it. Moments later I overheard other guests talking shit about me too. And my need for attention. And my vapid Facebook status updates and online existence.

When I heard this person I only got louder.

The old Bradford, known as Youngbradford, would have confronted him. Maybe caused a scene. The new Bradford was too caught up in the joy. The fun. The smiles. My time is better spent making people laugh, with me and at me, than it is at convincing someone my loud life has depth. Purpose. A point.

I am reading C.S. Lewis' book Mere Christianity at my mother's request. Good luck with converting me, Mom. But already in the opening pages it talks about right and wrong and doing good in the world. And I am committed, whether Christian (which I am not), Agnostic (most likely), or Atheist (I could be), to being good. Helping people. Celebrating my life and the wonders of this beautiful world. Singing at the tops of my lungs. Being stupid. Drinking wine. And dancing. And laughing. Writing as often as I feel.

And I am committed to being loud.

For in those piercing shrieks and loud gurgles a spirit exists. My father's. And also love, inspiration, joy, happiness. It may seem vapid and self-obsessed to some that one chooses to live their life the way I do, as an open book. But I cannot imagine it any other way. I live an extraordinary life. I have seen how quickly life can be snatched from us. I feel it is our duty to sing from the rafters. To jump, up and down. To celebrate this life and all its splendor, color, sounds, and tastes. There is nothing noble in keeping quiet out of the fear of offending or making others uncomfortable.

It's your duty to be loud in whatever way is right for you. So join with me. Sing a song. Make someone smile this year. Hell, make many! Be happy for people, not resentful. And keep on moving.

Don't stop like the hands of time.

December 30, 2010

Bradford Visits NHS from Bradford Shellhammer on Vimeo.

I returned to my high school to meet the members of the school's GSA.

December 26, 2010

I sit on a United Airlines flight typing away. It is Christmas day 2010. Georgi and I are flying to Chicago for a 3-day trip holed up in the Ritz Carlton, pampering ourselves at a spa, catching up on movies, and eating at Michelin starred restaurants. We deserve it. No, seriously.

This year has been exciting and fruitful. It's been perhaps the most rewarding year in my 34 years on this earth. It feels as if it's been a year-long journey, which it has been. Within that year I went on many, many smaller journeys, all over the world. These are some of the glimpses, the snap shots, the memories of far off places and faces.

In January, along with Matthew Betmaleck and Shawn Roeser, we rang in the new year in Quogue at the family home of Michael Sucsy, watching Academy screeners and drinking martinis with pickled grapes. I began chatting with Jason Goldberg about coming to work for him at a start-up he was launching, fabulis.com. By the end of the month I'd accepted his job offer and had left Blu Dot.

In February we travelled to Costa Rica with Theron Long, Gabriel Roman, Jesse Cozart, Monte Albers de Leon, Michael Meltzer, Eric Lee, Leland Belli, Lucas and Ryan McLoughlin, and Jack Shamama. We surfed, drank daiquiris, filmed monkeys, and relaxed. I started working for fabulis full time and immersed myself into the company.

In March we dined at friends houses and many a restaurant in Manhattan . I hosted Jesse Cozart and his friends upstate to celebrate the sweet one's birthday, traveled to Brooklyn with Alireza Massoumnia for dinner at Pam Johnston's shop, and attended the GLAAD Media Awards with Jason Goldberg, Richard Socarides, Charlie Herschel, Andy Towle, and David Fudge among others.

April rolled around and Georgi and I celebrated our one year anniversary. I returned upstate and flew to LA for work. Eric Lee met me in LA and Jason, Chris, Eric, and I attended the GLAAD Media Awards there with Michael Sucsy and Halsted Sullivan. I sat next to Chi Chi LaRue's table, where I could easily reach out and touch Rob Halford! We threw a fab party at The Abbey, attended by Wilson Cruise, Dustin Lance Black, and the amazing Diana Coney. I visited Kii Arens in his art studio and lunched with Fenton Bailey and David Hauslaib. Jason and I then went to San Francisco where we hosted a party at Blackbird. I lunched at Neimans with Jennifer Clark and Teresa Smiles. I stayed with Eric Lee and Jack Shamama and grilled on Suzy and James Varadi's roof with my hosts and Adrian Albino. Along with Marc Gallagher we also ventured to Napa, drinking wine and remembering the good old days.

On May 1st Georgi and I moved into a new apartment on 42nd Street at 11th Avenue. The apartment, though only 850 square feet, is on the 52nd floor. The views are sick. We're very, very happy there. fabulis hired a bright young thing named Mike Piscadlo, who has been a delightful and thoughtful employee. The site grew at leaps and bounds and press stories came in. Georgi and I saw A-ha! in concert and I djed the GUMBO party in Brooklyn with Bryan Raughton. I saw Diana Ross at Radio City with Sandra Hansel, Theron Long, Denise Garcia, and Alireza.

In June I saw a wonderful play with the Hansels on Phillip Johnson's glass house. I sang karaoke with friends on the 34th birthday and drove to Annapolis where I picked crabs with Georgi, my mom, Erin Gatling, Jen Barrett, and Lucinda Bennett. Dined with Rahnee Foster, Basar Akkuzu, and Scott Thureen in Washington DC. We started receiving a weekly bounty of veggies and fruits from out CSA and with Jason and Chris flew to Turks and Caicos for a 4 day trip full of sun and fun. We were guests of Michael Lucas and Richard Winger on Fire Island and returned to Fire Island for Pride weekend with Adam Norbury and Marty Chavez. We came back to the city to catch the Pier Dance, but opted to stay in on the sofa. Summer fun had begun.

July found us in Asbury Park for July 4th where we befriended Teddy Mayer and Kevin Lesser at the Empress Hotel. The Fab team saw Lady Gaga at Madison Square Garden. Went back to Fire Island, this time guests of Jason Goldberg's house. Watched Cyndi Lauper sing the blues with Sandra, David Mason Chlopecki, Eric Riley, Hunter de la Cruz, and Georgi. Then took my mother and Georgi's sister Vesela to see West Side Story on Broadway. Ventured to the Brooklyn Museum with Jesse, Eric, Denise, Sandra and my mom to see the Warhol exhibit. Went back to Fire Island the last weekend of July.

August was a blur of travel. I created and hosted the first meeting of a book club, Wine/Bound, which features a monthly book centered around NYC and also features the host's wine pairing. I saw Robyn and Kelis with Marty and Adam and danced like a madman. I went to India with Jason for a week of work and returned professionally and emotionally changed. And with many gorgeous textiles. I had more work done on my tattoo, had dinner with college mates Amy Wolff and Abby Umansky, and then went to Bulgaria and Turkey to see Georgi's homeland. In Bulgaria we sunned on the Black Sea coast in Varna, sailed north to the precious town of Balchik, and explored Sofia with Mihail Vuchkov. Overnight we took a train from Sofia to Istanbul. In Turkey we met Anthony K and Jwan Yosef and ate amazing meals, saw the sites, and visited art museums.

We returned home in September refreshed and ready to work. fabulis continued to grow. Ate a whole fish at Pearl's with Kristina Katopodis, attended Charlie Currie's birthday dinner, watched Alireza's Isaac Mizhari show alongside Robert Fontanelli at Linclon Center. Michael Mundy photographed me in our apartment. And we ventured upstate for a fall foliage weekend with Adam, Marty, Scott Seviour, and Ryan White. Ended the month with a visit by Marc Gallagher and Eric Lee, where I hosted a party in their honor attended by Matthew Kelleher, Andrew Urankar, Mark Silver, and Brian Babst amongst others.

In October we saw Joey Arias live. Georgi and I ran a 10K race on Governor's Island with Herschel, Kelleher, Urankar, Schoenherr, Kent Gould, Mike Arlotto, and Chris Rovzar. Brunched with Suzy and James in HK and ventured to Connecticut for Tram's beautiful wedding. Played paintball for the first time ever with Joe D'Espinosa, Patrick Menasco, David Mason, and Erik Bottcher. I was the best and celebrated my new found butchness at dinner at Joe and John Nolan's home that night. Met Joan Rivers backstage with fabulis winners after her hilarious show and attended the For Colored Girls premiere as a guest of David Mason, where I also met Ashford & Simpson and befriended Francois Sagat. Stood next to Janet Jackson at the after party so close I could touch her dress. Dressed in Slick It Up for a performance art piece at Suzanne Bartsch's Halloween party with Tai Chi Alfonso, Brandon Haynes, Eric Riley, Jordan Sternberg, Casey Kenyon, David Mason, Georgi, Mike Enenbach, Devin Melillo. Painted Francois' ass in glitter. Started painting too.

November started with the Florence + The Machine show at terminal 5 with Joe, Adam, and Alireza. Saw Robyn for a second time with Scott, Ryan, Marty, Adam, Zeev Sharon, and Damon Cardasis. Returned on my yearly trip to Palm Springs and partied it up poolside with Zach Augustine, Tom Coggia, Lucas McLoughlin, Diana Coney, Alireza, and Theron. Traveled back to India with Jason and stopped in London for a weekend on the return trip. Chris and Georgi met us and we had amazing dinners, threw a party for fab, and shopped with Alex Zapak on Portobello Road. Met up with Kris Heck, a friend from High School. Saw the Tate Modern.

December found us relaunching the site as fab.com, with new name, new investors, and two new awesome employees: Keith Edwards and Stevie Hannigan. Attended the Ages of Man dinner with John and Joe, hosted by Michael Rauschenberg and Tyler Lory. Saw Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown with Adam and Georgi and Katie. I loved it. Traveled to Baltimore and caught up with old friends, spoke at my high school (an amazing experience), and chatted for hours with the guy I had the biggest crush on when I was 20 years old, John Minutella. Christmas with the family and then off to Chicago with Georgi for a weekend holed up at the Ritz Carlton. Just the two of us in a city we know no one.

Whoa. That's a lot. 2010 was thrilling. Exciting. Boundary pushing. I saw the world with my friends. Fell in love more. And in the chaos and movement and creation and wonder and success of 2010 I found myself more grounded than ever. Believing in myself. My mother's love. The circle of life. Believing in the healing nature of coming home. Believing in the power of friendships. And in the power of writing and creating and seeing the world.


2010 was fast. Unpredictable. So satisfying. I am blessed and always aware, whether on the 52nd floor or in India or at my mother's kitchen table, that I live a charmed, lucky life. I only hope I give back in equal amounts to this world.

I've been threatening to make art for about 5 years now. I have a pen drawing of men I drew in high school, framed on the wall, hanging in Georgi and my office. The drawing is colorful and inspired by Camus' The Stranger and shows, even then, my taste consisted of hard angles and primary colors. 

I also have a giant flag I conceptualized while living in San Francisco in 2003. That flag is mounted on wood and is black, white, and teal. Though my idea, Tom Coggia actually created and printed the piece for me. So I cannot take complete credit for it.

I have recently desired to make art but have found little time for it. I have been busy the past several years: grad school, decorating two homes, starting a business, writing and blogging. I never managed to squeeze it in. This want to make something intensified sometime around the time Ben and I purchased our lake house in Dutchess County, New York. I made a few things, most notably a pair of blue and green portraits, that ended up featured in the New York Times story on our house, and relationship, a few years back.

Back then, while upstate, I often prepped, yet never finished, more art projects. I collected vintage fabrics and wallpapers and cut the shape of my hands out of them. I intended to make colorful and textured wreaths from them, using pushpins on cork. I have a box of hands, nothing made though. I painted a little and found these awesome household goods boxes, cleaners and poisons, from the 60s in the garage that I intended to collage in one way or another. Again, I never did anything with them.

But then I decided to challenge myself. I have been collecting lots of art over the past couple years. My obsession has moved from collecting books and furniture and clothing to art and posters. So I decided to start painting.

I convinced myself I'd create 100 paintings by Christmas with the intention of giving many of them away as holiday gifts. I began using acrylic on Bristol and using art tape to create lines and angles. This was not always successful. And it was not fun. There was no rhythm. And it was too clinical. When I write, when I cook, I don't follow instructions or rules or measure. I feel it. I get a pace and go with it. Usually the results are successful and sometimes they're disastrous, but the process is always fun and emotional and fast.

So I scrapped the art and the painters tape (which ripped the Bristol too often) and I decided to work on collages instead. I painted again on sheets of paper. I used thick and gloppy paint on some and watered down paint on others. The results were dried sheets of paper with varied textures. I then took scissors and cut. I cut squares and triangles and rectangles and dozens of other shapes. And then I glued them down and I liked the results, but the glue was messy. I then moved on to rubber cement and that worked too, but the fumes got to me and there was something missing from the results. They were too flat. So I experimented with mounting tape on painting number 11 out of my anticipated 100. I finally found the rhythm and the desired result. Clean, textured, and 3 dimensional.

Then I set to work. I painted over 100 Bristol sheets. I used almost every imaginable color, but brown. I hate brown. And I painted and painted and painted. I did all the painting over about 12 hours during a 2 week time period.

Then I took the stacks and cut. And again, over hours and weeks, I went to work. I cut so many shapes that my hands bleed from a blister formed. I arranged the cut outs in piles all over the house and in bowls separated by like colors and complimentary colors and shapes and sizes. Then on one Friday night I laid out the remaining 89 5x7 cards all over my floor and until 2AM I arranged the shapes on the cards. This was rhythmic and fun and brought me great peace upon completion.

I awoke to a floor covered in art and then I took to taping. I ripped mounting tape with my hands and took the assembled art and completed each of the creations. I then signed and numbered them, photographed them, and uploaded them one by one to my blog.

I then dispersed many amongst my friends, which was a little sad for me as I believe they're really remarkable as a group. See them all here.

Finally, I can call myself an artist. I have found a material and a method that worked. I am thrilled at the results and in 2011 I plan to apply this experiment to larger scale and more complex creations.

December 23, 2010

Everyone in high school knew I was gay. I mean, really, the signs were everywhere. I was captain of the (really bad) tennis team. I was senior class secretary. Secretary! I mimed Fred Schneider, Village People, and RuPaul at our school's annual lip sync dances. I saw Erasure front row two nights in a row. I wore vests. All really big giveaways.

I say I am from Baltimore. This is not a lie. I was born in Southwest Baltimore and stayed there until I went to 1st grade. That year my parents moved us to what Marylanders call "the county," a more country word for the suburbs. The town is Pasadena. Pasadena is a middle class place with a conservative vibe. There are many a pick-up truck.

Being out was not an option in 1994. I made subtle hints and I guess in hindsight not so subtle hints. But I came out the way most did in the 1990s: I went to college and started over with a clean slate. Fresh. No one from my past. Gays ran away then to start anew.

This past year has been filled with wonder. Not only has my personal life continued to evolve in magnificent and mysterious ways, my professional life has finally caught up too. I have been blessed with success in most things I've done in this world. But working for Fab and with Jason and with the entire team has been life consuming and also life altering. I am a changed person from the unique experience of co-founding a company, creating something new, collaborating with talented people who believe in a vision. I go to work excited each day. I laugh each day. I am blessed each day.

My life journey and my career and my personal life and my history all collided on Tuesday of this week when Keith Edwards and I boarded the Acela and left Manhattan for BWI. At BWI we rented a car and drove to Pasadena. There we went to Northeast Senior High School and I spoke in front of the GSA: Gay Straight Alliance.

Now let me back up. Yes, this year I have worked at creating this really awesome gay website. I have met so many amazing gay people, young and old. So just know that this year I have had an awakening concerning gay rights. I am much more political. I am much more aware of what it is like to be young and gay. And I am very, very aware of the communities that gay people need and create.

So back to Northeast and how I got there. It goes like this: My straight nephew Dylan asked me for a Fab shirt. I sent him one. He made that shirt his Facebook profile pic. I casually joke that he's supporting gay rights. He tells me that Northeast has a GSA. And I could not believe it.

So Tristan Freeburger, so wise for his age, adds me on FB and we start talking about the GSA he started and this makes me compelled to write Monica Lynch, the teacher who risked something assuredly in signing up to be the advisor to the group. I wrote her a letter to which she responded and a dialogue was born and sooner than later I was on a train to Maryland with Keith and camera.

The visit was special. The kids brought sushi and cookies. I was showered with gifts (art, hoodies, a pic of their original members). Tristan's mom came. My sister and my nephew came. Andrea Mucci, my favorite high school teacher came (the one who's look I totally stole from all these years). Ms. Lynch came. And the students came. About 50 of them. They were male and female. Black, white, Asian too. 9th grade through 12th grade. Gay, straight, and bi. Artists and jocks came. They were diverse. Diversity thriving at Northeast! This was too much. Gay kids don't need to run away these days to come out. They're doing it much earlier and in their high schools!

So I gave a little speech about my coming out and Fab and my experience and my education. I did not get heavy, nor political. I spoke off the cuff. And I asked lots of questions and took lots of questions. We laughed a lot.

I purposefully did not arrive with a slide show of anything planned. I went to just talk to these kids and to make new friends and to give them, hopefully, some strength in the fact that here I was, someone who was just like them, and someone who not only got through high school, but who also flourished during and after. I wanted them to know that they were not alone outside of the walls of Ms. Lynch's classroom.

Tristan said to me that he created the GSA (which he did all on his own!) so that there was a safe place for all kids, gay or straight or transgendered, in the school. But then he said something else. He said he wanted a place that was also fun. And that is what really hit me.

Tristan was one kid who decided to do something. He created a group. He recruited Ms. Lynch and his friends and others. And he had the power to make something and create something and that is how minds are changed. They are changed, and we the gays, we are accepted, at that one-on-one level. Their group will move gay rights and acceptance forward one day at a time. One kid at a time. One poster at a time. One teacher at a time. And one attitude at a time. They're an empowered group.

And they're also fun. And at Parsons and at NYC's dance clubs and at Fab.com headquarters and in San Francisco's Castro and at parties and movie nights and vacations and dinner parties with my friends there has always existed one huge, giant theme.

Yes, all these things, places, and people are gay, gay, gay. But they're also fun. Gay people are fun and we have the ability to change minds by making people smile. By creating places, whether a website for gay guys or a GSA for gay students, we foster community and camaraderie.

I am a changed man because of Tuesday afternoon's trip to Northeast High School in Pasadena MD, a place where I was captain of the tennis team, mimed The B-52's, and where I was in both the drama club and the closet.

Tuesday I was out at high school. And I felt honored to be surrounded by my peers, yes, 16 years my junior, but still my classmates. Fellow Eagles. Breaking through, coming out, and inspiring students, current and past, with their quest for acceptance, kinship, and above all else, fun.

Watch our video here.

December 19, 2010

December 9, 2010

In Blade Runner, Ridley Scott's futuristic screen gem, Sean Young's hair is coiffed beyond perfection. It looks molded from clay. Or Play-doh. Or plastic. Like Barbie, she too, though dark, brooding, complex, is perfect. I was 7 years old when I discovered her.

Images are easily burned into my head. And as a child my brain was especially permeable to highly-stylized images. They seeped in and stayed and stewed. And now, decade after decade later, I am transformed and influenced by these images. My icons. The styles of then that have shaped my now.

Sean Young was never your typical Hollywood beauty. She's always been a bit of an acquired taste, as are many icons: they're not for everyone, just those who get "it." With Young the "it" was always lying under the surface. It was never obvious. It was never in your face.

Blade Runner also starred Daryl Hannah, who like Young, also achieved icon status via this role. And, assuredly, I will eventually get to Hannah here (but I'd argue that it was Splash that cemented her status in my childhood brain). But I digress. Traces of Young's replicant is still seen in most futuristic movies and, most definitely, her "look" still shows its face on runways around the world.

It was in No Way Out, opposite Kevin Costner, where Sean Young's hope of superstardom was almost fulfilled. As a child I watched the sex scene in the back of the limo and, though I was unaware of what exactly they were doing, I knew it was dirty. And I liked it. In one role Sean Young went from sci-fi fashion plate to sex kitten. And I still looked to her with admiration and fascination.

And as quickly as she rose in Hollywood she faded.Originally cast as Vickie Vale in Tim Burton's Batman, Young lost the role to Kim Bassinger because she hurt herself. After that, she pressed on, determined to win the role of Catwoman in Burton's Batman follow-up. Madonna and Michelle Pfeiffer, at the time both much bigger stars, were considered for the role, and Young, unwilling to take no as an answer, showed up on daytime talk shows in full Catwoman garb lobbying for the role. Crazy! It was the beginning of the end. Burton cast Pfeiffer.

Sean Young disappeared into obscurity. But in my mind she remained relevant, a star. And the kookiness, and downright insanity, she seemed to possess only made me more obsessed. But she was lost.

Sean Young's been cast in the new season of Skating With The Stars. She's also appearing in the soap opera the Young & the Restless. So, yes, she's back.

And thankfully so. She forever shaped my impressionable mind in Bladerunner and in No Way Out and on the Joan Rivers show obviously off her meds longing to purr for the camera. She was the prefect mix of icy cool, manufactured glamour, and just a little bit of crazy. Hopefully, she still is.

December 8, 2010

Anyone who knows me knows how much I love furniture. I've worked for several furniture brands throughout my career and I am an avid collector of all things mid-century. I've also blogged for over a decade. This, and Facebook, has allowed me to collect friends via the Internet from all over the globe.

Sometimes people I don't know too well send me gifts. I do the same. This happened last week when a friend names Rob sent me a book called "What Every Woman Should Know About FURNITURE." Written by Jeanne Judson in 1940, the book is mostly pictures of furniture styles of the day. And while half of the fun is the book's camp title, there are some wonderful quotes I feel need to be shared like:

A house without books is a monstrosity. There should be at least one well-filled bookcase in the most lived-in room.

60 years later and I agree with Ms. Judson. Then she writes:

You should dress your home as you dress yourself, giving careful attention to your size, your age, your coloring and your personality. No overweight woman of fifty will let a salesman sell her a dress obviously designed for a slender girl of eighteen, no matter how fashionable the dress may be. She knows it is not correct for her.

Bingo, we have a winner.

Just as scrumptious as the book was the ripped-out Chicago Tribune page folded inside. From 1941, and depicting Lana Turner, the newspaper page featured a Marshall Fields ad. Also placed within the book's pages was the business card of one Mrs. Cora Cooley, Antique Furniture, Marshall Field & Company. In his note to me in the package Rob wrote "Besides the story of the book I loved finding this business card and newspaper clipping. Who was Mrs. Cora Cooley? And did she advise the young women who wanted the pink bedroom suite to go another direction? These are the questions I ask myself -and can only answer with my imagination."

I just hope someone else, 60 years from now, finds the book and the Tribune clipping and Mrs. Cooley's card and now Rob's note and smiles as big as I am smiling now, imagining an unimaginable time before today.

December 6, 2010

Winter came very early to London. But me, being ever the professional shopper, could not be bothered by subfreezing temperatures. I was in London for only a few days and Portobello Road was calling.

I rang up a friend, Alex Zapak, also known as The Countess. She's a combination of thrift-store chic mixed with high drama. Think Marilyn Monroe crossed with Cyndi Lauper circa 1984. Only British. She met me and my boyfriend, Georgi, on London's Portobello Road. Portobello is an open-air market with silverware and pots and crepes and antiques and cheap T-shirts and knock-offs and then, at the end, under an overpass, designer finds! Alex finds everything here.

It was exhilarating! We stumbled from booth to booth. I eyed a pair of Vivienne Westwood boots with camel leather buckles and for only 80 pounds! Sadly, they were far too big. Alex introduced me to former B-boys and musicians. She's a musician too, responsible for this haunting song. We tried on fur hats adorned with feathers while Alex spoke of the area's previous incarnation, full of Rastafarians in the adorable little row houses' windows. She said you could smell marijuana back then on the street.

It was too cold to smell anything though today. Our noses were frozen. But with pounds in our pockets we pressed on. I spotted a hilarious, and rather preserved, Mickey Mouse sweater that I snapped up for 20 quid. Alex stumbled upon a knee-length wool cardigan with a pattern that was one part Santa Fe and two parts Etro. And then, as Alex greeted old friends, Georgi and I wandered into the booth of a salesman of vintage ski coats. Many were obviously 80s, almost Tron like, with color-blocked Nylon geometric patterns. I eyed a powder blue windbreaker and to my surprise saw the familiar hardware hanging from the zipper cord: the Moncler rooster. It was a women's 14, thought it was super masculine. I  tore off my Moncler bomber and, to my surprise, the 14 fit like a glove. No smell. No stains. And no ridiculous retail costs the brand demands today. It was the score of all scores, one of those rare finds that make all the misses of vintage shopping worth the hours and hours when one finds nothing.

It was meant to be I thought!

The three of us tired of shopping and were joined by my high school classmate Kristopher, who now lives in London working in finance. The four of us ate bangers and mash and spoke of the differences between New York and London. And as much as I loved listening to the stories of these two friends of mine from two different walks of life, selfishly, I kept only thinking of my knapsack. 

For in it lied that Moncler coat feverishly waiting to be dry cleaned and worn around town upon my return to Manhattan. It is all I could think about.

December 5, 2010

Georgi and I bought a tree and then went to KMart and bought lights and decorations. The result, our first tree together, is above.

November 28, 2010

I had no clue then that she was a super Christian. I had no clue, really, what Christianity was. I just knew I liked the way she looked and the way she sounded and the way she sang on TV. There was something clownish in her make-up and clothing. And I liked clowns as a child. So I liked her in her beaded sweaters and camp hair styling and mascaraed lashes. Tammy Faye Bakker intrigued this little gay boy.

I remember her crying. The make-up stained. The smears and drama and the crumbling of her dynasty! Her husband was a thief, who used their online ministry to deceive many. And Tammy Faye, his wife with the giant eyes and giant shoulder pads, cried for our nation and our sins. She was the living embodiment of excess: of religion, fashion, wealth. And, of course, make-up.

It seems odd that someone so Christian would become a gay or fashion icon. But Tammy Faye did, once her marriage crumbled. She palled around with Jim J. Bullock, the out and HIV-positive comedian. She found a new voice. Not one where she was a caricature of the 1980s. Not one where she swindled people. But one where her eccentric charm flourished. Tammy Faye found her voice.

Tina Turner has her legs. And Betty Grable had that ass. And Bette Davis had those eyes. But so did Tammy Faye Bakker and I used to stare at my TV wondering how they got so big. Oh, the wonders of make-up I'd only discover much later in life!

As a gift many, many years ago my friend Zach gave me several Tammy Faye albums. In one she's on the cover in full safari get-up, as camp as Liza Minnelli and Carol Channing combined. In The Eyes of Tammy Faye, World of Wonder's thoughtful tribute/documentary, that recently aired on Sundance Channel, Tammy Faye is painted as a fascinating character, worthy of my childhood adulation, even if at the time I could not understand why.

Sadly, Tammy Faye succumbed to cancer years back. But her unique spirit, squeaky voice, and big, giant, painted eyes still are picture-perfect snapshot's of America in the 1980s. Gay kids, whether RuPaul or myself, found her inspirational. Far more than any preacher could have ever imagined she'd be.

In India I rode on a motorcycle for the first time. This, to some, may not seem like a big deal. But to me, rest assured, it most certainly was. I know that often times, on this blog and on Facebook and the like, I may seem like an opinionated free-spirit who blows with the wind. The reality is just the opposite. I am actually very detailed, very thorough, and very cautious. Things that scare me I simply avoid. Motorcycles are one of these things I fear.

But it was dark out and it was Jason Goldberg and my last day in India. We'd worked 6 straight days in a row at our development offices in Pune, including an 8-hour Sunday and one night past midnight. So between the hours worked and the heat and the jet-lag, perhaps, I let my inhibitions down and I jumped on the back of Nishith Shah, who cycled me to the vegetable and fruit market.

My eyes lit up. I asked Nishith questions about the foreign items, pods and fruits and leaves, the likes of which I'd never seen. I grabbed some Indian oranges, sweet, green, and easy to peel, and quickly I hopped back on the bike. The streets are filled with bikes. And that night we drove by young people eating and an open-air dry cleaners and a recycling stand, and though most of my time was spent working on our baby, this amazing website we're developing, I was very honored to have this quick glimpse into the day-to-day life of those who live there in India. Fab has made two trips to India in one year possible. I am so thankful for that.

I am thankful also to be challenged and motivated by such a diverse and talented team. The week in India was successful. We got much done. We mapped out future plans and products and directions. And we witnessed the fruits of our previous months come to life. It is exhilarating watching something you help conceptualize take physical form. It is like childbirth. You know, well, at least what I imagine it would be like. Maybe. A little?

After the motorcycle ride Jason and I drove to Mumbai and then flew to London. It was 90 degrees in India and 20 in England. That's some crazy shit. We met Christian and Georgi at Heathrow, as they too had just arrived into London, though via NYC, not India. The 4 of us journeyed around London. We shopped. And ate. And checked-in on our new iPhone app!

We ate dates from the Middle East and feasted at Le Petit Maison, a restaurant I found to be so remarkable in its simplicity. Of course we shopped too. I got a tour of Sotheby's by my friend Fred, who works there, and we laughed over scones and espresso. On Black Friday we hosted a party in Soho where the room was packed with people from various parts of my life. New friends like the artist Jwan Yosef and our NYC neighbors Rob and Sam stood in the same room as Jordan Flaste who I partied with at Twilo in the late 90s and Kris Heck who I took AP English with in high school. My old West Village renter Alex Zapak arrived in a fur hat and sequined dress and Mark Evans, who has read my blog forever, finally shook my hand. Users of fabulis came out in droves too and they snatched up T-shirts, chatted me and Jason up, and watched an American tranny, Miss Kimberly, do a number from Chicago. The night was organized by Julian Bennett and everyone sipped champagne and made some new friends. It was fun.

After a quick meal we were off to another bar in Soho where we reconvened with Jwan and Eric Riley's friend Hew and where I stumbled upon Frenchy, Francois Sagat, sipping a beer, acting all demure. Kissed faces. Met people. Even danced a bit. But as the London night started taking off, we started fading and we ventured back to the hotel.

The next day Georgi and I met Alex and Kris on Portobello Road where we shopped and then ate bangers and mash. We browsed the Tate Modern when we met up with Chris and Jason and finished the night toasting a successful trip at Hakkassan, just the four of us. Thankful for friendships, good times, food, wine, our business, and this amazing trip the last year has been.

We briskly walked home in the cold and when we got to the hotel I collapsed in Georgi's arms. This was my first Thanksgiving spent out of the US and without turkey and without pumpkin pie. But with my best friend. My companion. My lover. My future husband. The reason I wake in the morning and the reason I do everything. He inspires it all and I am hard pressed to even remember my life before. Yes, I know that life was full and colorful and brimming over with friends and accomplishments and wonder. But it was different. The colors, less vibrant. The sounds, less clear. Something, even in the most full of full lives, was missing.

Georgi, my love. My dear. My big-eyed, big-souled wonder. You're my everything. In the steam of India and in the charm of London and in the energy of NYC and in the heat of Palm Springs and in the familiarity of Baltimore I am only truly home when I am with you. Without you, I ache.

I am thankful for the world I travel and the faces I kiss and things I create and people who I hold in high regard and the opportunities I've had this year and the work I've been able to do. I am thankful every day. But, mostly, really, honestly, I am thankful for you.

November 11, 2010

I usually have structure to my ramblings. I mean I don't map out my essays. It's not as if I am writing a novel. But usually while working out or in the shower on during my frantic steps toward the office in the AM I think about what I want to write here. And I did not do that this time. I'm just flowing right now. Y'all feel that?

Let me first start our saying that I have been accused of being a fame whore before. In the early days of my blogging, when I looked up to Jonno and Jockohomo and AKAFrankGreen, I would, here and there, get nasty letters. Then, ten years ago, many people did not get blogging. They viewed it as a pompous platform for the deranged and the self-important/indulgent. And they were a little right. But what bloggers did back then was create something. We created these little worlds. These little brands. Thousands of people read our words. Commented. Hated. And that made me feel special. Recognition makes you feel special.

So, yes, I used to get nasty emails in my early days of blogging. I remember one guy, the artist Tim Gaskin, called me a gay-fame chaser. It's not a nice thing to say. People say that about Richard Allen Lehmkuhl, now Reichen Lehmkuhl, the reality TV star. I've met Reichen, about 5 years ago at Shag, a cute but closed bar in the West Village. He joined me and our mutual friend Matthew Kelleher for drinks one night. I paid him little attention and vice versa. No animosity. Just two different types of apples.

Now I am not judging reality TV. I think some of the best things on TV are in the genre. But the genre has most definitely changed. It ain't what it used to be.

A funny thing is that some of my best friends, and I mean best-best friends, were/are reality show stars. The Real World. Big Brother. Survivor. And many other people I adore and know, more second tier friends, but friends nonetheless, have either created and or appeared on reality TV. I sometimes laugh at how many reality TV people I have in my phone. It's a lot.

So again, I am not hating. When the Real World debuted it was ground breaking. It showed ordinary people. It fulfilled Warhol's promise of 15 minutes of fame. And really ingenious shows highlighting everyday people's talents sprung up. Top Chef. The Amazing Race. Survivor. Project Runway. Drag Race. The list goes on and on.

But then something changed. The era of Perez Hilton arose. Viciousness became chic. Nastiness, acceptable. And reality TV, some of it at least, took a despicable turn towards cheapness. People's personalities were replaced with caricatures put in place to sell Coca-Cola. And prescription pills. And dish washing soap.

The reality TV stars stopped being in on the joke. Instead, they were the joke. And these shows, the Housewives series and The A-List, and that disgusting ilk, brought a new low to TV. It contributed to the dumbing of the USA. Look at the last election and the Tea Party and you'll see what I am talking about. We're getting dumber. Lazier. We demand less. From our heroes and our idiot boxes.

I do love cheap humor. Don't get me wrong. I love John Waters. Showgirls. Shirley Q Liquor. Glitter. I like bad TV. I like those things. Camp is good. Appealing to the lowest common denominator is not. Lady Bunny tells cheap jokes. She, however, is not cheap. Under her bawdy humor there is a level of intelligence. She tells cheap jokes. She is not cheap. There is a difference.

Back to Mr. Lehmkuhl. Dorian Corey would have said hurray for you! And I did too. You served your country. Hurray! You won a grueling competition on the Amazing Race. Hurray for you! You parlayed your fame into gigs selling jewelry and calendars. Hurray for you! And you played the card the Gods above dealt you. Hurray for you.

Some say you worked hard. Some would say you made very little go a very long way. I say you succeeded. And that's commendable.

But this is where I am going to stop being nice and start being real. Today you were quoted in an interview stating:

I just did a video for my Facebook saying look, it's a television show made for the purpose of entertainment and we're not here to represent the whole gay community -- we can only represent seven people in the gay community, and watch it for that. Watch it as a TV show. If you think we're a bad representation of the gay community, it's like, every gay person knows ... we all know the way these seven guys, including myself, act on the show are an accurate representation of the way a lot of gay people act.

For you, as a gay person, to deny that this is a fair representation of the gay community, you're fooling yourself. What you're really trying to say is, you're worried about how we look to straight people. In my video I say this is what we have to stop doing as a community -- stop worrying about how we're portrayed to straight people. No matter how we're portrayed, it's how we are.

If every gay guy in America wants to walk around in a dress all day long and sing show tunes and be as stereotypically gay as possible, we still deserve our rights. We still should demand our rights, and we shouldn't be worried that we don't have credibility to demand our rights because straight people look at us differently. We still deserve our rights.When we start cutting each other down from the inside and say "He's the wrong kind of gay and he's the right kind of gay"... We should start saying "Okay. As a gay person, I accept all people and the way they act in the gay community, even the way they're acting on the A-List because that is a fair representation of the way a lot of gay people act." [If we do this], then we're going to get strong as a community because we're going to say despite how we are, for real, we still deserve our rights anyway."

The interview was conducted with the author Brent Hartinger, someone I interviewed when I was the founding editor of Queerty. I'm sorta shocked that the quote just was left out there without a challenge. Reichen, listen up, honey.

I don't care what the straight world thinks of me. I founded a widely successful gay blog. I am currently cofounder of another widely successful gay website. I am gay for a living. I wear make-up to concerts. I swim in high heels at public pools. I kiss my boyfriend on the street. I am out and proud and unafraid to speak my mind and fly my freak flag. The reason why I take issue with what you state is twofold: it is not true and it is stupid. I am opposed to untruths and stupidity in equal measure.

I never attacked or belittled you in writing about you before. Not my style. I always appreciated your good looks and your G-rated sex appeal. But what you said is asinine. And dangerous.

I don't fault you and your cast mates for setting the wrong example for gays. I fault you for setting the wrong example for people. You, your cast mates, your Housewives of ATL and DC and NYC, all of you, signed up for this. Everyone knew what the A-List was going to be like. Everyone knows what sells: cheap human drama. Gay or straight, it is still cheap.

I am dear friends with a slew of gay people. They are in no particular order: Broke. Millionaires. Porn stars. Drag queens. Investment bankers. Muses. Fashion designers. DJs. Unemployed. Salespeople. Marketing gurus. Models. Waiters. Actors. Newscasters. Authors. Doctors. Lawyers. Journalists. Bloggers. TV stars. Filmmakers. House cleaners. Entrepreneurs. Tech whizzes. Politicians. Illustrators. Photographers. Students. Nurses. They are many and diverse and some are loud and some are quiet and some are New Yorkers and some are in little towns.

And none of them are like you and the reality TV show people who appear on these shows in a trade with the (corporate) devil to sell their livelihood for a bask in the Hollywood glow.

It's cute for you. But not cute for me. Or my friends. Or most gay people.

Yes, people like you and your cohorts exist. And yes, they can be fun. And yes, smart. And yes, we should not judge them! And I don't. It is just not for me. But, how dare you say what my thoughts are? You don't speak for gay people. You speak for yourself. And your career has said enough.

I want to say you should be able to do as you see fit on TV. That you should act anyway you can. But you cannot. You're a star, babe. And as dangerous as that pussy Anderson Cooper's closeted life is, yours is in the the reverse.

With young impressionable kids out there hungry, grasping, searching for role models you and Mr. Cooper are, like it or not, in that position.

He should lift them up and save their lives by living the truth, not a lie. His silence, still to this day, equals death. It saddens me.

You're no Anderson Cooper. But you are a star. You are on TV. And you do yield power. Stop telling me and my gay brothers and sisters why you think we object to your show. And instead look in the mirror and in each others eyes and search for, and show us, something of depth.

We're not fooling ourselves into believing that gay life is so much more than what your show represents. You're fooling yourself that fame and flashing bulbs and magazine covers will protect you from the truth. Grow up. Own it. And deal with your responsibility. You're one of the few gay faces on TV and that comes with a burden. Same for Mr. Cooper.

You should have your rights. I don't think any gay person thinks otherwise. But I urge you to think more before you spout out your theories as to why some, many even, would call your show garbage. Acting a fool on TV is not threatening my quest for rights. But it sure isn't helping.

We, gays and straights, are smarter than that and we should demand more. In our entertainment and in our leaders and in the faces of our community, which includes you and Anderson.

Logo's Drag Race is in direct opposition to A-List. Someone could argue that men in drag would threaten our quest for rights. But no one ever did. You know why? Because Drag Race is inspired. It celebrates talent and overcoming adversity. It celebrates the human spirit, as did your turn on Amazing Race. Remember?

A-List celebrates none of that. It celebrates misinformation, ignorance, and unnecessary drama. And I will be vocal in demanding more form the only gay TV channel.

I don't want to contribute to the dumbing of America. I don't want to celebrate these things your show spotlights. And, most importantly, I don't want to laugh at you and your costars. And that's just what they're all doing. And that's not who I am. And that's not who most gay people are.

Got that?

November 9, 2010

The last couple of weeks have been rip-roaringly fun. And exhausting. And remarkable.

I'm finishing up these notes I've been collecting while flying on a Virgin American flight high above Indiana, a place I've never been. Brenda Strong, the voice of Desperate Housewives, sits besides me. The plane is bumpy. Like these past weeks.

A few weeks back I ventured to the Ziegfeld Theater to see the world premiere of For Colored Girls. David Mason had invited Georgi and me to the premiere and I sat with a new friend, Daniel, and waited for the show to start. From across the star-packed room I eyed David with the porn icon Francois Sagat, who had just arrived from France. Francois walked over and sat down next to me. His baby face and baby smile are nothing like his persona suggest. He was cute as a button.

Georgi arrived late to the after party at The Oak Room and I waited outside for him as the others went in. And luckily he was late, as the two of us walked right in behind Janet Jackson and right before Thandie Newton. We were packed between them like sardines. Jackson was a real treat to see up-close. She's not pretty like she once was, but she's growing into her new face, all big eyes and cropped mop. She radiated.

Chatted with Honey Dijon and Ashford & Simpson. Sipped wine. And snuck out to our apartment, accompanied by David and Francois. The 4 of us talked art and movies at our apartment until well past midnight.

Halloween rolled around a few days later finding me and Georgi alongside Francois and David again. We dressed with a large contingent of gay homosexuals, representing David's clothing line at Susanne Bartsch's party. Eric Riley was a raven, Jordan Sternberg a wrestler. New friends served fetish Indians. And fetish cats. And fetish poodles.

Yes. A god damned fetish poodle.

I painted Francois' butt cheeks in glitter. Chatted up Joey Arias. Winked at Juanita MORE! I dressed, and lost, Mike Enenbach, who was in town visiting from LA. And I celebrated friendships, old and new. That is until the fire department shut down the party and threw us to the curb.

At an after hours party in Chelsea our group of black vinyl vigilantes recounted the evening's mischief and Georgi and I just could not hang anymore. We left first and ventured back home right before the sun rose, smeared in eyeshadow, glitter, and smiles.

I got botox too that week. Shh. Don't judge, it's not Christian. My forehead had started looking like a Shar Pei and an old friend invited me to tag along to his appointment. On Park Avenue in the 80s I had my forehead numbed and injected. And days later I looked like I was in my twenties. The doctor looked at my eyes and said I had not one crow's foot. And now I have not one line on my head. And I look and feel great. Cute for me. No lines, no wrinkles. Just like one infamous house mother.

That week I hosted dinner for Jason and Chris and Joe D'Espinosa. I made a delicious butternut squash lasagna and we talked about music, quizzing each other on (mostly) bad random bands, like The Cranberries and Goo-Goo Dolls, and the chart performance of various records. Georgi, always gets mad when I offer up disdain for young gays and their lack of respect for the defining music of prior generations. I feel young kids have lost a connection to the past, to the history, especially of gay music. When I listened to Pet Shop Boys in college I searched long and hard for what inspired them to make that music and in doing so discovered OMD and Donna Summer and Kraftwerk. Kids today, they just don't care.

So Georgi calls us "pretentious old music queens." And then, right after that declaration, he and Chris express their love of Vengaboys.

Hmmpf.

And so I'm about to land and I'm just returning from Palm Springs, where I have now celebrated gay pride poolside at the Ace Hotel two years running. My companions from last year showed their faces again: Diana Coney, all dirty and alive. Alireza Massoumnia, all calm and relaxed. And Zach Augustine, all mischievous and full of charm. We returned to Cher's pool and wrecked havoc. We'll continue this traditional every year. We have a pact signed in blood (red lipstick).

We were joined this year by Theron Long, Zach's sister Zadie, Lucas McLoughlin, Tommy Coggia, and, of course, Georgi. And even though I was fighting a cold we still proceeded to swim in heels and wigs. Eat Mexican breakfast as the sun came up, every day. We watched drag shows and danced the disco and flirted and giggled and read for filth. And we gave some real cute looks. I saw Juanita and Heklina and Joshua J. from SF. I made new friends. Ate snow cones. Got a tan. Screeched with Jimmy James. Sat with Sandra Hansel for a quick second. And in 90 degree weather, as the sun beat down on our beat faces, many parts of my past, and future, ebbed and flowed by that pool. The light shimmered off the water. The camera flashed. We teetered on patent leather pumps, kissing, hugging, embracing, that past and that future in equal measure.

Several pilgrimages made. Sun-kissed and glitter-soaked. Glimpses back in time and in time with the beat of that old school disco. Lipstick stains on my face. And once again I am reminded by just how special my world has become, unraveling with treasures, those freaks and friends, I've collected in far off places.

Their fairy dust, like that glitter and that eyeliner, impossible to wash clean. Even if I dared to try.